


Cusp

by breathedout



Series: Passchendaele ficlets [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Adolescence, Author is glad she is no longer 14 years old, Childhood, F/F, O Canada, Romantic Friendship, Young Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-23
Updated: 2019-01-23
Packaged: 2019-10-15 03:29:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17521157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathedout/pseuds/breathedout
Summary: Antigonish, Nova Scotia: September 1875.Is this what grown-up life would be? Had she untold years of it before her? Swelling,burstingwith happiness, to be riding in a buggy in a white dress, the whole peninsula rolling away beneath her and the sea coming up to meet her and her best, her beautiful friend—





	Cusp

**Author's Note:**

> The folks over at [femslashficlets](https://femslashficlets.dreamwidth.org/) on Dreamwidth are hosting a year-long, 15-ficlet challenge where all the prompts are Janelle Monáe lyrics. I'm using them to create a little cycle of exercises using characters from the three established or hinted-at f/f pairings in the original novel I'm working on. So all of these tiny character studies will be related to one another, and all except three of them will be either Louise/Hazel, Rebecca/Katherine, or Emma/Maisie. Anyone interested in getting to know my characters a little bit as I flesh them out is welcome to follow along!
> 
> This story was written for the prompt "She'll have you falling harder than a Sunday in September."

Antigonish, Nova Scotia: September 3, 1875

The entire day had felt—magical, already; so _lovely_ it left Rebecca, oh, almost a trifle dizzy; as if every time she blinked she was opening her eyes on a whole new glowing world. _Blink_ and her mother was pinning her silver brooch on the shoulder of her best white dress; _blink_ and she was nestled next to Katherine, the buggy all to themselves except for Katherine's brother Robbie up on the box with the reins in his his hand so it was for pure joy that their whole sides pressed together, Katherine's long dark curls tickling Rebecca's arm. _Blink_ and the winding road down to Mr. Chisholm's place, familiar yet suddenly made new: the soft undulating fields, long grasses half-brown after the summer, sloping down and down to the Straight and ringed, on the other side, with maples just touched with the slightest dusting of red and gold. 

"As if they're lit from within," said Katherine, leaning so that her breath puffed against Rebecca's ear in saying it, and Rebecca put her hand into Katherine's hand and felt—is this what grown-up life would be? Had she untold years of it before her? Swelling, _bursting_ with happiness, to be riding in a buggy in a white dress, the whole peninsula rolling away beneath her and the sea coming up to meet her and her best, her beautiful friend—

And then _blink_ and the sound of Barnabas's hooves sharpened, and _blink_ and the town was coalescing around them, Robbie taking them in on St. Andrews Street and Rebecca's fondness stretching out in waves, in wings: caressing and encompassing even the tannery, and the Big Elm at the forking river; and then _blink_ and Rebecca was tripping after Katherine rushing to keep up with Robbie, who turned so fast to regard them that they were both brought up short, laughing: Rebecca putting her hands on Katherine's shoulders to steady herself. Robbie sucked his teeth. 

"Look, there's—I have enough to do," he said glaring down at them, "without shepherding the two of you"; and then _blink_ and they were standing together, _impossibly_ free: shoulder to shoulder on the steps of the Presbyterian church where he'd left them, en route to the post office, just as services were breaking up. 

_I suppose we should shelter in the vestibule_ , Rebecca was about to say, as they hadn't any money and it had certainly been what Robbie had intended; but Katherine had stepped back and put her hand out, formally, like a suitor paying court to his young lady. 

"Miss Landry," Katherine said, and Rebecca giggled. "Might I escort you down the boulevard this fine morning?"

"Why Miss Llewellyn," said Rebecca, wondering at herself. "The boulevard! I would be charmed."

So she looped her arm in Katherine's proffered arm, white against pale green; feeling wild and strange and as if she might be anyone, do anything—stand on her head or smoke a cigarette or sing a Turkish dance-hall song like it was nothing at all and quite customary in her experience—since here she was, setting off down Main Street, matched footfall to footfall with Katherine Llewellyn.

Nor did they stay on Main, so impetuous were they and flush with liberty; but wandered up Sydney, and down Victoria—"Good morning, Mr. Cunningham," Katherine called out, seeing him coming out of his front door, and "Why good morning, ladies," Mr. Cunningham said, _just_ as he would have said it to Rebecca's mother, walking past with Mrs. Turnbull on a trip to town. Rebecca stood taller, her hand on Katherine's arm. Past the Cunningham place St. Mary dead-ended into Elm, so they turned, stopping for a moment to gaze at the low river winding through the grasses at the edge of town: swamp-land in the spring but dried now to a hard pack at the very end of summer. Out beyond the water she could just make out the trailing black smoke of the Cape Breton train, making its way west toward New Glasgow. Rebecca, watching it, had the sudden, vertiginous thought that there had been a time, standing right at this spot, when no town had stood behind one; and no tracks before one; and she felt: _blink_ that when she opened her eyes—

But it was only the crisp, bright sun. Only the breeze and the low water, and a bittern rising out of the grass with an offended _onk! onk!_ and a rustle of wings. 

And then Katherine said, "I'll beat you!" and was off, tearing down Elm before Rebecca could think—and so of course she must follow; and as girls again, the respectable young ladies of ten minutes before quite cast off, they turned the corner back onto Main, racing past the Court House, the bakery, the seminary, until Katherine, grinning, glancing behind her with the sun in her brown eyes, ducked through the gates of St. Ninian's cemetery, and Rebecca gaining, raced after her; caught her up; threw her arms around her waist colliding with her back, laughing.

Later they sat on the ground, by a white stone carved with an angel who leant with her wings spread, her head pillowed on her folded arms. 

"She looks like you," Katherine said, and Rebecca, face hot, shook her head. "Yes," Katherine said. "See: the line of the jaw. The way her hair parts." She reached over and drew a line with her two fingers, delicate, from Rebecca's part down around the edge of her jaw: Rebecca felt her chest would break open. A whole _lifetime_ , she felt, wouldn't be enough; and yet to contain just this moment was more than she could bear.

"Not as pretty as you," she said, her heart beating; and Katherine cuffed her on the shoulder, but she smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> For an 1867 map of Antigonish, so roughly contemporary with this story, see [here](https://novascotia.ca/archives/maps/archives.asp?ID=55). (Do hit "full view"; otherwise it's infuriating to try to read). They've got like five streets and four different churches, so. That seems right. Heaven forfend the Baptists should have to mix with the Presbyterians.
> 
> I'm listing Rebecca's character tag as "Rebecca Landry Thompson," her married name, because I don't want to end up with two different tags for the same character. Obviously she's hasn't picked up the Thompson yet at this juncture.


End file.
